


Grellancholia

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Child Death, Gen, Melancholy, Reapers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 22:50:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6169834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Yes, that's a pun.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grellancholia

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of these things that's concieved and written in a few hours without any forethought or hindsight, so ? Hopefully it's not bad.

The swing creaks with each oscillation – back, forth, back, forth. The chains that tether the seat to the frame are rusted and stiff, grating against the metal. Rust was not the killer here.

There is a creature in the seat, kicking her legs back and forth listlessly, idle almost to the point of nonchalance. She is no child, far from it, but there is an almost ethereal quality to her – the fountain of hair waving gently as she moves, scarlet as murder, the absolute emptiness in her wide eyes that stare from a skull tipped almost a right angle back to stare at the sky – that permits her presence in the play-park anyway, adult or no. One hand is tight enough around the chain that it may well serve as a lifeline, whilst the other droops loose around the handle of a chainsaw, out of place in the scene.

The swing creaks – back, forth, back, forth. The reaper stares at the sky, at nothing, and does not look back at the body.

She will not leave until they come back. Until it is moved, taken away from where its breath stopped, assured safety in rest. She cannot leave him here alone, even though his soul is far past awareness and the corpse is but an empty shell. It wouldn't be right.

She senses _him_ before she sees him, and ignores him until he clears his throat.

“Why are you doing this?”

Grell pulls her head up with great effort, hauling herself upright to meet his eyes. She takes the time to look at him in his entirety now, here, as he is, as she hasn't allowed herself to for some time. He has come here for her, That should be enough – she doesn't deserve it. But he doesn't have to be here; and, not for the first time, she wishes that he would simply leave her alone.

William T Spears is standing straight, as he always does; so stiff that it's almost painful. Everything is rigid – even his hair, which should be touched by the breeze as hers is, show some sign of reality – everything is still. He does not move, does not waste the energy needed to breathe; only stands, watching her. The expression on his face is not kind. Somewhere between disdain and misunderstanding, it is an ugly thing to look at – it suits him well.

He waits for her answer, more from the clear desire to avoid the ignominy of repeating a question that he knows she has heard than any form of patience, and she smiles wide at him.

“Why – to draw you out here, of course! Had I asked you'd never come, darling. But I sit here, minutes past the finale of the act, and you come running to see what has held me back. Do take a seat.”

William does not smile. Grell is not certain that he knows how to. A scowl is beginning to bloom, something born of his inability to ignore irritation, and he says, “This is the third time this week. It has been almost an hour since you were supposed to have finished here; by now I'm well aware that if I do not follow you out, you pine for far longer than is in any way justifiable and return too late, if at all, to get anything done.”

“And so you come for me again! There is a romantic heart behind that frigid exterior, isn't there? Oh, Will – embrace me!”

He doesn't move to do so so Grell does it herself, releasing everything to throw her arms about her own body in order to show him how he is supposed to do it, closing her eyes and leaning back precariously in a perfect mirrored pretence of bliss. Remaining like this, holding herself suspended in time, is easy – but when she risks opening one eye, and then the other, William is still there.

A minute passes; two. She feels them tick by, and knows that he is keeping as close a count on the seconds as she is. They simply exist together, as much a part of the scenery as the swing, the corpse, the blood, the reapers. Both wait for the other to relent.

Eventually, William offers his hand, and Grell does take it – perhaps too eagerly. The gesture is rare enough to covet, so she attempts to hold on in spite of everything, but he shakes her fingers loose once she is on her feet.

“You can't keep doing this, Grell.”

“Doing what?”

“Waiting for them.”

They both glance at the body then, almost involuntarily. Such a simple mistake, so small a fall, flat against a sharp metal edge that had split the soft skull like the shell of an egg, too premature to have hardened. It was so quiet – but there had been another here, and he had seen, and he had cried and fled. He will return, and bring closure to the scene.

“I have to.”

“No, you don't.” He sighs then, the first movement he has made bereft of any obvious purpose, and looks at her in much the same way that she has already looked at him. Perhaps he sees right through her, perhaps not; his eyes are blank and silent. Perhaps he understands. Perhaps he doesn't. Either way, he speaks again. “Would it help if I requested that you don't get saddled with the reapings of children?”

It is not a question that Grell expects, and she gapes at him for a moment. “What? No. No, I have to do this. _I_ have to do this, Will – none of you understand the care you need to have with a child's soul, that you have to judge it differently from an adult's – no! I am the only one who can do this properly. And to do it _properly_ , I need _time_.”

“You don't _have_ time,” William counters, more quietly than expected. “These reaps are affecting you, Grell, badly. Even I can see that.”

She stops.

She stares at him.

She decides that he is lying to her, because that makes things easier for them both.

“Don't you dare pretend that you give a damn how I am feeling,” hisses Grell, and William fails to react fast enough so she plunges onward, emphasising each word with a sharp, empty gesture. “Don't you _dare_ pretend that you want me away from these for any reason other than to drag me back to my desk, to prevent me from straying for too long! You can _see_ that it's affecting my paperwork, my reap times, my work hours – but me? No. Don't pretend that you care for me at all.”

A flush is rising around his neck – anger? Embarrassment? It doesn't matter, because he snarls, “ _Fine_ ,” and backs up as far as he can go with a single step. It's quite a way. “If you're back within the hour, I might not report you,” he adds, a threat rather than a term, and then there's a _crack_ and she is left alone.

Grell stands, frowns gently into the air around her, and then retreats back to the swing. She sits again, and kicks her legs against the ground in a way so distracted that it borders on nonchalance. After a handful of minutes she tips her head back and stares upward, as though searching for some great cosmic answer. She does not look at the body.

They will come. They always come, eventually; but until then, she will not leave the boy alone.

It wouldn't be right.


End file.
